by Lane Hart
Standing in front of my boat on the wooden dock are four guys in suits with their handguns pointed in our direction and another four in black utility uniforms. Each of those men are holding a dog leash that’s threatening to snap thanks to the surging, growling, barking German Shepherds on each of the ends.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” my latest regret is chanting over and over from behind me. I don’t even swivel my neck around to see if she’s following my orders, afraid to make any sudden movements.
“What’s going on?” I shout over the noise.
“Saxon Cole, you’re under arrest!” one of the gun-toting dickheads yells loud enough to be heard over the ear-splitting raucous. “We also have a warrant to search your boat!” Slipping his gun into his shoulder holster, he pulls out a folded sheet of paper from the inside of his suit jacket.
“Let her off the boat,” I say with a tip of my head behind me. “She just met me last night and doesn’t know anything.”
With a nod, the fed holding the papers waves the girl over to the dock; and she scurries off my boat and huddles in his arms. Then she has the nerve to glare at me like I’m now some kind of villain. Hell, she was the one who put my hand between her bare legs in the bar last night and asked if I wanted to get out of there.
“So what the fuck am I accused of doing?” I bellow at the fed as I lower my hands to the back of my head as he originally requested.
“Somebody cuff him and then let the dogs search,” I hear him order, ignoring my question. “No surprise they’ve already caught the scent of drugs.”
“I’ll save you boys some time,” I reply. “There are no drugs on my boat. But there is a half-feral cat in the galley. He’s a mean little thunder cunt who will gladly claw your dogs’ eyeballs out,” I warn the idiots because it would be a mistake if they corner the feisty feline.
As if he answers to the vulgar name, Willy comes barreling up the stairs beside me, skidding as his claws attempt to dig into the slick deck floor. The barking goes from annoying to deafening with his sudden appearance. As if fearing for his life, Willy scrambles up onto the side of the boat and then launches himself through the air and onto the vacant yacht sitting next to my boat.
The drug dogs are then tugging their handlers in the direction of the feline.
I consider taking advantage of the distraction, trying to make a run for the control room just around the corner to start up the engine. But if these fuckers shoot up my boat, I won’t get very far before it sinks. And if they shoot me, well, I doubt anyone else would adopt Willy once I was gone. God help them if they tried.
Deciding there was really no reason to attempt to flee, I simply say, “Told you so,” to the guy I assume is in charge when another one steps onto the boat with me and pulls out a pair of handcuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he starts, reading me my Miranda rights. I’m pretty sure this means I’m still fucked, even though they won’t find shit during their search.
I’m not sure how long the government pricks keep me waiting in a cement dungeon with nothing but a cot harder than a boulder and a foul-smelling toilet, but I’m guessing it’s around eight to ten hours, judging by my stomach.
The first few hours it growled, hungry for something to eat while I waited for someone, anyone, to come tell me what the hell I’m in here for. While I assume it’s drug related charges because they’re the Drug Enforcement Agency, they need some sort of proof of illegal activity. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what evidence or witnesses they may have.
My mind continues to race with possibilities while my stomach goes from an inconvenient hunger to a constant, gnawing ache. Forget my six-pack of abs, my abdomen is beginning to look more like one giant sinkhole.
Enough is enough!
Getting up from the rock-hard bed, I finally go over and bang my fists on the heavy metal door that only has a tiny sliver of a window. If I stand on my toes of my boots, I can almost see out of it. Almost. All I’m able to make out from this angle is the lights in the ceiling.
“Yo! Did you fuckers forget I’m in here? I want my goddamn phone call!” I roar at the top of my lungs. “Hello! Anyone? You have to fucking feed me and shit! I have rights!”
I pause in my shouting to put my ear to the door and listen for the sound of footsteps or other prisoners, anything.
Nothing. Not a peep. It’s like I’m the only person in this entire hellhole, which is good for the other Kings but really sucks for me.
“Dammit!” I exclaim with one last slam of my fist on the door before I trudge back over to the cot and lay down.
I wonder how much time I’m looking at in a shithole like this. Five years in prison, same as Ian? It could be ten years or more for racketeering if they’re trying to bring down the club. Fuck, I could even spend the rest of my life in four concrete walls if they somehow found out about the Russian murders. But if it is about the Russians, where the hell is everyone else?
The not knowing is worse than just having them tell me how deep the shit is so I can start preparing myself. But for now, all I can do is wait and think the worst.
Chapter Two
Sax
Hours, maybe days later, after I’ve fallen asleep, having succumbed to the exhaustion and hunger even though the bright as fuck lights in the dungeon never go out, I startle awake at the sound of a door slamming in the distance. When I sit up, my heart races in my chest with hope that I’ll finally get some fucking answers.
My eyes nearly water when I hear keys jingling before the thick cell door swings out, revealing a lean man in a gray, three-piece suit with thick, dark hair that is either a damn good toupee or professionally styled. All I know is that he’s definitely not a fed. They can’t afford to dress like him. There are several agents standing guard behind him, though.
Also, the front man looks vaguely familiar…
“Who the hell are you?” I ask when I get to my feet. My throat is dry and scratching thanks to the dehydration.
He smiles to show all of his perfect, white teeth while his fingers grip either side of his lapels like he’s posing for someone to take his photo. Finally, he says, “As a registered voter, you should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Cole.”
Oh great. He’s a politician. No, not just any politician. I’ve seen his face on television for years now.
Holy shit!
This dude is the fucking governor of North Carolina!
He strolls into the room until he’s standing right in front of me, then holds out his hand. “Lawrence Washington.”
Southern-bred hospitality takes over as I blink at him and I shake his hand.
Once my brain catches up, I realize that this, him showing up here, is really bad.
“Should I be honored that the governor is checking in on me? I doubt you’re here to ask me to vote for you in November. Incarcerated felons can’t exactly make it out to the polls.”
“Well, if all goes as planned, you won’t be incarcerated in November,” he tells me. “Have a seat, Mr. Cole.” Then, over his shoulder, he says, “Can I get a chair in here and maybe a meal and beverage for our guest?”
Guest? What, like we’re having a tea party or some shit? I’m a fucking prisoner.
“What is this about?” I ask him, my patience wearing thin. Although, if he comes through on this food and beverage request, he could possibly be my new best friend.
“Let’s get something in your stomach before we get down to business,” he says. “Negotiations are always more likely to succeed after a decent meal.”
“Negotiations?” I repeat, but the politician remains tight lipped as he stands with his hands clasped behind his back and waits for his requests to be met.
A suit carries in a food tray, and the smell of a big, juicy cheeseburger hits me before I see it. I snatch it up and sink my teeth into it a second later.
“Mmm. God, that’s good,” I moan as I chew, savoring the flavor even though it’s room temperature at bes
t.
“I’m not god, but I have my sights set on the presidency,” the governor says while I eat like a starving animal. I suppose it would be polite to slow down and listen, but I really don’t give two shits what he thinks. I’m too hungry to care. And thirsty. Fuck, I’m thirsty. That’s when I spot the enormous white fast food lidded cup with a straw. I don’t care if it’s pink lemonade in that bitch, I reach for it and guzzle it down.
“Sweet tea. Nice,” I say when I pause long enough to taste it. The beverage is so cool and refreshing that I almost forget I’ve been locked in a prison cell. Almost.
“Have a seat, and let’s talk while you eat,” Washington says, his hand gesturing to the uncomfortable cot just as one of the other guys brings in a gray metal folding chair and opens it for him.
By the time he lowers his ass to sit down, I’ve finished my burger, half my tea, and have grabbed the fries from the tray, eating them one at a time as I grip them with my teeth since I refuse to give up the cup.
“That’ll be all for now,” the governor tells the men, and they all leave us, shutting the door behind them. The clanking slam of it reminds me that just because he fed me doesn’t mean I get to leave anytime soon. Although, he did say something about not being incarcerated in November if I cooperate…
No, fuck that. It can’t be that easy unless he wants me to cough up some criminal details to lock up my brothers in the Savage Kings. That won’t ever happen.
“So, let’s hear your spiel,” I tell him, followed by a long, disgusting burp orchestrated just to annoy him. “I appreciate the grub, but I can save you some time if you want. My answer will be no to whatever you ask.”
“Don’t you want to hear it first?”
Picking up another fry with my teeth, I chew it up and then finally sit down on the cot like he wanted. Once I swallow, I say, “I just want to know what charges you’ve got me locked up for.”
“Serious ones I’m afraid,” he replies, resting his palms on his thighs. “Federal, of course. You’re a smart man with a few years of college under your belt. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupted Organizations Act, also known as the acronym RICO.”
“What about it?” I ask, refusing to give him any details.
“You and every single one of your MC buddies are in hot water for a multitude of organized crimes.”
“Like what? Right now it just sounds like you’re full of shit and are trying to use me as part of your fishing expedition.”
“Oh, there’s no need for me to try and fish for information. I have plenty of specifics, if that’s what you want from me,” he says as he pulls his cell phone from inside his suit jacket. “Conspiracy, to start with.”
“Conspiracy?” I repeat. “I’ve got a squeaky-clean record. Our attorney can get most of us off with a slap on the wrist for any of your little marijuana charges.”
“Marijuana, right,” the governor says. “No one gives a shit about you all growing and distributing weed.”
“Oh really? Because that whole DEA arrest earlier where I was thrown in here makes me think someone gives a shit.”
“I had to bring you in, and those federal agents were willing to help me,” Washington says with a shrug. Leaning forward, he lowers his voice and says, “The thing is, the feds don’t know about the Savage Kings MC’s conspiracy to commit the murders of twenty Russian nationals yet.”
Oh shit.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I bluff.
“Well,” he says with a sigh while punching keys on his phone. “Maybe this little video taken outside the Escapades strip club in Greensboro will refresh your memory.”
I’m still in shock from hearing him cough up those very specific details about our slaughter a few weeks ago when he flips his phone around to show me the screen. Then, I watch a silent video of myself and all the other Kings minus Reece and Cooper, who stayed here in town while Cynthia was recovering, marching into the club.
“Let me give you the spoilers since it’s a long video,” the governor says. “About an hour or so after you all go inside, the Russian mob boss Boris Kozlov and nineteen of his men walk in, but only the Savage Kings and Anthony Russo, or Ivan Rivers, as you probably know him, come out.”
“Guess the Russians really liked the strippers and stayed overnight,” I lie.
“Oh no, they didn’t stay overnight,” Washington replies. He turns the phone’s screen around; and then when he shows it to me again, it’s a video of several men carrying black garbage bags from the back of the building and throwing them into the back of a food truck. The video is mostly green tinted with night vision or some shit, but it’s still clear.
How? How the fuck did he get a video of all of this? Eddie and Cedric checked for cameras on nearby buildings, and Ivan assured us that there were none in the alley. It doesn’t make sense!
“I bet you’re wondering how we obtained such an interesting video,” the governor says, reading my mind as he locks the phone’s screen and puts it away in his suit jacket. “Drones.”
“Drones?” I repeat.
“Technology is simply amazing, isn’t it?” he asks. “Those little cameras can fly right above, say, a convoy of Harleys, without detection.”
“All you have is a video of dudes going to a strip club. The only thing you could do with that as ‘evidence’ is piss off a couple of wives,” I mutter.
“But you see, we also followed the food truck to the landfill, which would be strange enough on its own, and were able to find a few of those black garbage bags.”
Son of a motherfucker!
Whispering, he asks, “You know what we found in those trash bags? The severed body parts of a bunch of dead Russian men.”
The burger, fries and tea I scarfed down start to turn heavy in my stomach. In fact, I’m not sure I can keep them down much longer.
“Great! Now it looks like you’re ready to hear my proposition,” Governor Washington says as he leans back in his chair. “I’m willing to make the evidence I just showed you disappear before the feds get their hands on it and call in a few favors to get them to drop the marijuana trafficking charges against you and your MC buddies if you agree to do one little thing for me,” he says. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life behind bars? Do you want your ‘brothers’ to all spend their lives in prison? That would be a shame since some of them have small children and babies on the way…”
Jesus Christ.
Not only would the guys be miserable if they got arrested and convicted on these murders, their women would be devastated. And their kids – War’s son, Torin’s boy and girl, Miles’ kid on the way – they’ll be raised fatherless, which would destroy their families. If there’s anything I can do to prevent that, I have to, right? Not just to save my own ass, but everyone I know and care about.
“You see, Mr. Cole, I don’t actually want to throw you and your MC guys in prison for the rest of your lives. You took out the trash, literally, stopping one of the main sources of heroin from coming into my state, and saving tax payers tons of money since law enforcement and the court system didn’t have to get involved. But I’m not opposed to making the call to the US Attorney and turning over my evidence either. Either way is a win for me,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
“What the fuck do you want?” I ask since we both know he’s got me by the balls.
“It’s simple really. I just need someone like you to watch out for my daughter.”
“I’m not a babysitter,” I tell him.
“Isobel is not a baby. She’s twenty-eight.”
Brows drawn together because I’m completely lost, I ask, “Then why do you need me to watch out for a grown ass woman?”
“Because she shouldn’t be on her own in the world without protection,” he says.
“Then hire a bodyguard.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” he huffs. “She refuses to let me keep a man on her. And to top it
all off, she keeps losing the guards I covertly assign to her, constantly staying on the move. I just need you to try and slow her down.”
“I don’t understand,” I confess.
“You’ll meet her in a bar, buy her a drink, and go from there,” he says with a wave of his hand.
When he stays silent after that statement, a bark of laughter escapes me. “Are you asking me to fuck your daughter? God, you’re certifiably insane! How the hell did you ever get elected?”
“Because I do what needs to be done to keep the people in my state safe,” he growls, face reddening as he loses his temper for the first time in our conversation. “I won’t do any less for Isobel!”
“You’re serious,” I remark in disbelief. “All I have to do to get my ass and my brothers out of life sentences is screw your little girl? That’s got to be the strangest request ever made by a fucking father,” I tell him with a disgusted shake of my head.
“I need Isobel to settle down, to put down roots before time runs out.”
“Time? What time is running out?” I ask before it hits me. “Ohhh! You mean you need your daughter to be grounded where you can keep an eye on her, so she won’t fuck up your re-election campaign. That’s fucking low, man.”
“My daughter has been going through a rough patch, that’s all,” he says defensively. “I know what’s best for her, and I can take care of her if she’ll just stop living her life like it’s one big party.”
“And I’m somehow supposed to be the man to make her stop partying and help you and your public image?”
“Isobel has always preferred men of your…caliber.”
“You mean she’s a good girl who loves bad boys, huh?” I ask with a grin.
“You’re not all bad though, are you, Saxon? How exactly did you become a member of the Savage Kings?” he questions me.
“I prospected for a year just like everyone else.”
“No, I think it was a little something more than that.” He stares me down, waiting for me to break. He can wait forever because I’ve never told anyone what I did, and I never will.
